


Five Times

by good_old_days



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 09:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/good_old_days/pseuds/good_old_days
Summary: There are endless ways to fall in love. Watson can count at least five.





	Five Times

I fall in love with him first in a reeking haze of chemicals, under arches of cold laboratory stone. When he holds up his hand, fingers pierced and plastered, and examines it with sparkling, affectionate wonder in his dark eyes, I find myself hoping he might look at me that way if—when—we live at Baker Street together. Even then, in those first moments, before he's spoken more than an astringent, scientific word to me, I am sure we're meant for a great friendship.

Excitedly, he tells me about his hemoglobin research, graceful, chemical-splattered hands gesturing with enthusiasm. I know about these things, though my medical knowledge feels dusty and faded by years of underuse. I find myself staring too long as he waits expectantly for a reaction to his discovery, and finally I manage the lackluster response, "Oh."

___________

I fall in love with him some months after we've moved into the rooms at Baker Street, once things have settled into place under the comforting blanket of his pipe smoke and Mrs. Hudson's fussy concern for our bachelor's well-being. He is at the end of a case, pacing out the details across the tiger skin rug and my newly purchased bulldog pup, who makes a yelping retreat when distracted feet get too close. His violin is in one hand, the bow, a single piece of catgut sprung and curling, in the other. I am reading the paper, trying my best to be another piece of the familiar scenery that helps him think.

"Of course!"

He has stopped pacing behind my chair, and one hand, still graceful and still spotted with the remnants of midnight chemistry experiments, clasps my shoulder briefly. The explanation, when it spills forth from the vast, perfectly gridded corridors of his mind, is so wonderfully complete that at its conclusion all I contribute are nods of amazement. He accepts the admiration for the moment or two he can withstand it, then presses my accolades aside like the crime scene cameras that frequently strive to catch him and consistently fail.

"How about a song, old boy?"

When I look up he is fiddling with the bow, adjusting it. I can't pass up this rare treat, a good mood, ready to coax something more than thoughtful, discontented squawks from his violin. I request Liszt and he plays it resplendently, wrapping the notes of a private concert around me like he usually wraps tobacco smoke and the acrid gunpowder trails of his pistol.

___________

I fall in love with him in the humid midsummer crowd at the Punchbowl, sweat-dampened wool and spilt beer creating a miasma as the last fight of the night is announced and I crack a smile at the name. _His doctor_ , a man nearby says to his companion, nodding at me. I glance back—the man looks like a stevedore, judging by the size of his arms (despite his gentle teasing, perhaps I have picked up a few rudimentary skills of deduction). I am, I suppose. I've stitched him up enough times after fights like this one to be assigned the role permanently. The thought warms some region of my chest, briefly, and then he appears from beyond the ring of marred boards and the heat drops lower, wreathing the bones of my hips and the insides of my thighs, places I will wish his hands could fall as I inevitably bandage them after the fight.

He wins, of course. I know he will because he's told me to bet on him tonight, has withdrawn my chequebook from the locked drawer in his desk where he kindly keeps it and suggested a substantial sum. He wins, but not before his opponent catches him across the back with ragged fingernails, creating a gash I have to clean and stitch up in the dusty warmth of a room above the pub. As I bind his skin together with neat black stitches, the muscles that so recently flexed and glistened in the dirty light of the ring quiver, a strange moment of fragility. I come so close to leaning forward and pressing my lips across the shivering skin. As I tie off the thread my head starts to dip involuntarily, but luck makes him turn around at the last minute and the familiar hand, now twined with white medical tape, touches my shoulder.

"My dear Boswell, what would I do without you?"

I bask in the rare sun of his smile, then twist my lips wryly. "Bleed to death."

___________

I fall in love with him on my wedding day. We haven't gotten along for months as I draw away, resigning myself to a happiness that seems like tarnished silver in comparison to the platinum spark of his wit, the sharp twang of his violin strings, and the fascinating texture of lines that has weathered his face with increasing charm over the years of our association. He has been petulant as I pack up my things, sitting with his discordant violin as I pluck my notebooks, medical bag, and Gladstone, now halfway through his canine life, from the midst of half-finished chemistry experiments, stacks of yellowing newspaper clippings, and the photo of her. When the hansom comes for my things he retreats to his room, threadbare dressing gown trailing behind him like the cloak of a displeased monarch.

I don't see him at the ceremony, but he surfaces at the reception clean shaven and dapper in a coat that belongs to me. I wait for venom but he kisses my new wife's hand, the manners of his little-referenced upbringing making a rare appearance. The diamond he gave us sparkles, nearly overwhelming her thin finger, and I catch the contrast of their hands, hers pristine white and his still dappled with stains.

"You look lovely, my dear girl."

It is the first kind thing he has ever said to her. He turns to me and smiles, the expression plucking up lines around his eyes. One hand dips into my jacket, just a little too loose on his wiry frame, and he produces my chequebook like a magician doing a favorite trick, pressing it into my palm as he embraces me with his free arm. "You have someone very capable of looking after you now, old boy."

His lips brush my cheek, ash dry, and by the time he pulls away he's smiling again, eyes dancing as he directs the expression toward my new wife. It takes me a moment to fumble the small square of leather into my own pocket and retake her hand.

___________

I fall in love with him in an empty house, three years after I've resigned myself to never seeing him again. The wife he accepted with such good grace is gone, too; I progress through my days alone in a fog. Awaking to his face is like stepping into a dream, stumbling over its cloudy edges into sunlight. I know the topography of him well, even after all this time. Bright eyes and wild hair and bone-sinew hands that are on my shoulders, shaking me back to him. The surprise makes me unreasonable, and I lean upward and catch his lips before they can speak. I feel his eyelashes flutter against the crest of my cheek but he doesn't pull back, only pushes me down toward the gritty floor.

Some time later he turns to me, a furrow appearing between his eyes.

"How long?"

I smile. "Since the very first moment."

His eyes catch mine, sparking, affectionate, and it is like coming alive after a century entombed. "Me too."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quite a few years ago for a long-since-deleted Livejournal account. Came across it recently and thought it was worth revisiting...


End file.
